The Bolton Bride
by Queen of Ice and Winter
Summary: "Lord Bolton is a good man. A loyal man. Even loyal men need to be rewarded, especially a lord as powerful as the Lord of the Dreadfort. In the past, our Houses haven't always seen matters eye to eye and your marriage to Lord Bolton's heir will bury the matter and cement a stronger north." For peace and an end of a shared bloody history, Sansa Stark must marry the Leech Lord's son.
1. Sansa I

Sansa had cried when she embraced her mother for the last time before Robb helped her onto her horse for the journey to her new home.

Everyone she knew and loved would be naught but memories. She had hugged everyone that early morning in Winterfell, even Arya.

Silent tears rolled down Sansa's unusually splotchy cheeks as she stared out the window at the courtyard splattered with fields of melting snow. It was only the afternoon yet it was as quiet as the tomb. Sansa shuddered. At Winterfell she hated her sister Arya's constant whining of her hatred of sewing; now she missed it. She longed to hear her old septa reprimand Arya for her crooked stitches and wanted Arya to shout in her ear for being stupid. Sansa sniffled and wiped away her tears. She wanted to go home.

 _All highborn ladies must leave for their husbands' homes one day._ Her mother's soothing words echoed in her head. _I left my childhood home for Winterfell just as your aunt Lysa left for the Eyrie. It is now your turn Sansa_. Sansa drew her furred cloak around her tighter. In the schoolroom she learnt about alliance-making and she played come-into-my-castle with her friends a countless number of times. In the rare feasts, she heard songs about beautiful maidens forced to wed on their fathers' orders – she never thought she would too.

Sansa often dreamed about marrying a handsome knight or prince and giving him sweet babies one day. Never would she have guessed Father selecting her a husband from the dreaded House Bolton of the Dreadfort. "Lord Bolton is a good man," Father had tried to explain to her, "a loyal man. Even loyal men need to be rewarded, especially a lord as powerful as the Lord of the Dreadfort In the past, our Houses have not always seen matters eye to eye and your marriage to Lord Bolton's heir will bury the matter and cement a stronger north."

Her mother tried to reassure her. "At least you wouldn't leave the North," she said as she cried against her chest. "Once you and Domeric are married, you can visit us as many times as you want – wouldn't that be nice?"

Robb and Arya attempted to make it sound exciting. "You'll be going to a new place," her elder brother Robb pointed out. "Honestly Sansa, you are lucky to be going somewhere new in the North. Besides, Father had sent ravens to all of his bannermen, telling them of your betrothal feast. You're even more fortunate that Father will be escorting you to the Dreadfort after the feast. On the way, you will be welcomed in every castle like a queen. Isn't that what you always wanted? To be showered with praise and treated like a maiden from one of your songs?"

Thinking of Robb made Sansa's heart ache.

The door creaked open. Sansa glanced at it and hastily stood up as she caught sight of her future good-mother Lady Bolton standing quietly in front of her with her thin hands clasped together and a smile on her face.

"Lady Bolton." Sansa couldn't even recognise her own wobbly voice.

"Sansa," said Lady Bolton warmly. "My poor child, you look ill. Did you have a difficult journey, dear child?"

"I am tired, nothing more." When Sansa heard that the cold Lord Bolton had a wife, she feared the Lady of the Dreadfort would be as icy as her husband. "I was up and riding at dawn."

"At dawn! You must be tired from riding all day."

"My legs are sore," Sansa admitted. Lady Bolton stepped towards her. Garbed in a plain grey gown lined with dark grey fur, she looked as bleak as the grey sky outside. Her brown eyes twinkled. "Domeric loves riding," she remarked, looking at her intently. Sansa shifted uncomfortably. Was there something about her that displeased Lady Bolton? Was it her auburn hair? She had no time to comb it till it shone this morning. "He would ride all day if he could," said Lady Bolton fondly. Sansa nodded politely. She hoped Lady Bolton wouldn't force her to ride all day tomorrow with her betrothed.

"How many brothers and sisters do you have?" asked Lady Bolton.

"Four," said Sansa promptly. "Five if you include my half-brother." On the day of her departure, she even hugged Jon Snow, her father's bastard.

"Your half-brother," repeated Lady Bolton. "Ah…the honourable Lord Stark's bastard." She continued to stare at Sansa. "You're a beautiful girl Sansa. Blue eyes and that auburn hair…you look more Tully than Stark." It sounded almost like an accusation. "All the Boltons have dark hair," she went on as if she was speaking to herself than to Sansa, "even when they were Red Kings. Do you think you will have children with dark hair or red?" Before Sansa could say a word, Lady Bolton answered her own question. "Dark of course. Perhaps one or two with red hair though eh?" She smiled at her again. This time it seemed…malicious. Rather than sparkling with happiness, her eyes glittered coldly like onyxes. She reached out and squeezed Sansa's hand. "You will be my daughter soon enough," Lady Bolton told her. "I always wanted a daughter you see. A son yes, but also a daughter. The old gods deemed it fit not to give me a little daughter, but they compensated by granting me the most perfect son I could ever want."

"Lady Bolton," said Sansa nervously. "You are frightening me…"

Lady Bolton laughed. "It is good to be frightened, little wolf. We can't have you a weak little Northerner now can we?"

Sansa's mind buzzed with confusion. As if sensing her bewilderment, Bethany Bolton patted her hand. "Don't worry little Sansa," she murmured. "When you go back to Winterfell, you will be a Bolton and stronger – much stronger."

* * *

When one of the Bolton servants knocked on Sansa's door to inform her that it was dinner time, her tears had dried up and her initial fears gone. However, her heart still thudded like a stone sitting at the bottom of the small, black, cold pool in Winterfell's godswood.

"Ten minutes if you will!" Sansa called. Taking a deep breath, she opened her trunk and dug around for a suitable gown. She discarded her favourite light blue gown as she thought it wise to dress in Stark colours rather than Tully; the black dress was casted aside as it didn't match her complexion particularly well; and a grey gown was just…plain. Her heart pounded faster as she hunted for a suitable gown. She never realised how difficult it was choosing the right dress for her first dinner with the Boltons.

"Lady Sansa?"

With a sigh, Sansa grabbed the plain grey gown and hastily changed from her stained riding attire. She quickly combed her hair, dropping the comb on her bed in the most unladylike fashion and rushed out. She murmured an apology to the waiting servant and followed him into the Great Hall.

Winterfell's Great Hall was vast; outside it was enclosed with grey stone and covered with banners and with wide doors made of oak and iron opening to the castle yard. Inside the Great Hall, it held eight long rows of trestle tables, four to each side of the central aisle and could seat up to a little more or less than five hundred people. Upon entering the Dreadfort's Great Hall, the first thing she had noticed were the rows of torches grasped by skeletal human hands jutting from the wall. The hall had a vaulted ceiling and the wooden rafters had turned black from smoke. Sansa shuddered.

"This way Lady Sansa."

The servant led Sansa past the rows of long tables decked with dust and to the dais where Lord and Lady Bolton were already seated. "Lady Sansa," Lord Bolton acknowledged in a whisper. "How good of you to join us."

"Lord Bolton." Sansa dipped her head. "Lady Bolton."

Lady Bolton nodded and smiled. "Little wolf…" Uneasily, Sansa sat beside her and glanced around. In Winterfell, the Great Hall was never empty.

The doors opened and a tall young man with dark hair and ice blue eyes came in. He was pale – not as pasty white as Lord Bolton though – and donned a black tunic with something glittering pinned to his breast.

 _My betrothed._

"Domeric." Lord Bolton nodded at his son and heir. "I hope you have not spent the whole day riding."

"Father." Domeric Bolton sat down on his left. "Mother. Lady Sansa." His eyes briefly met Sansa's. She looked at him and smiled weakly. Domeric Bolton looked the same age as Robb, if not a little older. _I suppose I can love him_ , she thought as he gave her a slight smile. _Thank the gods he is not an old man_. She suppressed a shiver as she remembered her mother telling her about poor Aunt Lysa who was forced to marry the Hand of the King, old Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie.

"Are you cold Lady Sansa?" inquired Lady Bolton.

Sansa shook her head. "Not in the slightest Lady Bolton." She felt another pair of eyes upon her. She glanced up. Lord Bolton was staring back at her with his eerie eyes as pale and strange as two white moons. Sansa looked away. Luckily she was spared from speaking to him as four servants walked up to them, their heads bowed low as they brought plates of supper.

"I hope you like venison stew Lady Sansa," commented Lord Bolton. "It is one of our…specialties." A ghostly smile appeared on his face. It was unfortunate that Sansa greatly disliked venison stew. She once went on a hunting trip with Robb and their father's ward, the heir of Pyke Theon Greyjoy, and watched in horror as Theon shot down a running dear with a cocky crow of victory. Sansa was seconds away from fainting, but that was not the worst part. At dinner, the cooks served them venison stew, cooked from the very deer Theon killed that day.

Sansa's stomach turned as the horrible smell of venison stew wafted towards her. With Lord Bolton's strange eyes still upon her, Sansa spooned up a portion of stew and forced it into her mouth. Repressing a shudder, she swallowed it and smiled wanly at Lord Bolton. "This is delicious Lord Bolton."

Across from her, Domeric seemed to be refraining himself from laughter. With a slight frown, Sansa arched an eyebrow. "Lord Domeric," she found herself saying. "Is there something that amuses her?" Both Lord and Lady Bolton turned and stared at their son. Domeric's expression immediately transformed to one of impassivity. "None at all my lady," he responded quietly. He broke a piece of his bread and offered it to her. "Would you care for some bread Lady Sansa?"

"That is kind of you my lord." She accepted it gratefully. At least venison stew would be more edible with bread.

"Call me Domeric my lady. You are my betrothed, Lady Sansa, not one of the maidservants or squires."

Sansa nodded. "As you wish my lo-Domeric, if you will call me Sansa." With a tilt of his head, Domeric repeated her name. " _Sansa_. A lovely name. Northern too I believe. My lady mother and I had a discussion about you, my lady. Mother was under the belief that Lady Stark had given you a southron name. She insisted that you bore Lady Stark's mother's name."

Sansa shook her head, wondering what could've possibly led to a discussion about her name. "My grandmother's name was Minisa. All my siblings and I were given Northern names."

"I would have named my daughter after Roose's mother or mine own," Lady Bolton remarked placidly.

"Your father named one of your brothers after me," Lord Bolton reminded his wife. "I am quite honoured by that."

"Will Aunt Barbrey visit soon?" asked Domeric, brightening up. _Aunt Barbrey_ … Ah, Lady Bolton's sister and the Lady of Barrowton.

"Of course," answered Lady Bolton. "She is interested to meet your betrothed, Lady Sansa." She glanced at Sansa. "She will be here in a day or two. Lady Sansa, have you met my sister Barbrey before? After King Robert's war, Barbrey rarely visits Winterfell. Or so I believe," she added.

Sansa shook her head. She felt more uncomfortable conversing with her soon-to-be good-mother by the second. During her journey to the Dreadfort, she heard that Lady Bolton was a kind woman. Sansa even held hopes that Lady Bolton was like her own mother. Apparently that was not the case.

Suddenly tired, Sansa stood up. "I'm dreadfully tired," she admitted. "May I be excused?" Lady Bolton glanced hesitantly at her husband. Lord Bolton was just as silent. "Of course," Domeric spoke. He wiped his mouth with a square napkin and stood up. "Permit me to escort you to your chambers," he offered. "I wish to hear more about you Sansa."

"That is kind of you Domeric." She bade good night to Domeric's parents and followed Domeric out of the Great Hall. As she walked through the winding maze of corridors, Sansa missed the fresh air of Winterfell. The Dreadfort's Great Hall stank of smoke while the cold corridors carried a musty and stale scent. She had not embarked on a tour of the Dreadfort yet; that was for tomorrow. Morsels of bread and venison stew shifted in her stomach as she wondered if she would be shown the Dreadfort dungeons. Lord Bolton would not be pleased if she excused herself from the grand tour. Besides, as the next Lady of the Dreadfort, it was in her best interest to learn the way around her new home.

"Do you have any cousins or siblings Domeric?" Sansa asked timidly, avoiding the agonising gaze of a stone statue of a flayed man in the corner. "The Dreadfort is awfully quiet. There were not many people in the Great Hall at supper."

"The servants do not eat with us," said Domeric, staring ahead. "It is not a time of war so the soldiers are at their own homes. No Sansa, I do not have any sisters, brothers or cousins. Before I was fostered in the Vale, I spent four years as a page for my aunt Barbrey. I foolishly asked her why she did not have any children. She didn't reply." A queer expression crossed his face. "I too have recently arrived at the Dreadfort," he remarked. "I was here a mere few months before you yourself came today. The first words Father told me when I set foot in the Dreadfort was, 'Domeric, you are to be betrothed to Sansa Stark'." He chuckled. "You can say I'm almost as much a stranger to my own home as you." They turned another corner where there were a corridor full of doors that looked suspiciously like dungeon doors. "That is the door to the library," said Domeric, pointing at the largest one at the end of the corridor. "If you are ever bored, feel free to go and read a book or two. The rest of the rooms there are guest rooms. Father wanted to give you one of those chambers but my mother convinced him to give you a room closer to mine own. We are betrothed after all." They continued walking until Domeric stopped and opened a door. "Here we are," he said, smiling at her. "I will escort you to breakfast tomorrow morning Sansa."

Sansa returned a smile, more genuine than before. _Maybe Mother is right_ , she thought as she thanked him. _Perhaps there is hope I will be like the maiden in the songs and marry a handsome and kind man…even if he is a Bolton._

* * *

 _Sunlight streamed through the windows and showered Sansa in its warmth as she found herself seated on a chair beside the Iron Throne. She looked around and caught sight of Stark banners hanging everywhere along with the Baratheon stag and Lannister lion banners. Surrounding Sansa were the seven sworn knights of the Kingsguard, all in shining white armour with snow white cloaks billowing around them as they stood still on the dais._

 _Below them were lords and ladies all in finery, jewels glistening from their skin. The herald announced something and they all bent their knees as the great oak and iron doors swung open and a young man strode in. Sansa held her breath. He was the most handsome prince – no, king – she had ever seen. Tall with shiny green eyes and a crown of gold crusted with rubies and black diamonds resting on his mop of blond curly hair, he was so handsome…_

 _Smiling, he sat down on the Iron Throne and kissed Sansa's hand. "My queen," he murmured softly. He turned and looked at the kneeling courtiers. "My queen and I have good news to share," he announced. "It seems the Seven have finally gifted my sweet wife with a fertile womb! My queen is with child!"_

 _The vision shifted. An agonising scream pierced the air. Her own scream. Rivets of sweat poured from her forehead and back as she pushed with all her strength…a wail of a newborn child rose._

 _"A boy!" came the victorious cry. "An heir! His Grace has an heir!" Sansa held out her arms and a bonny baby wrapped in a blanket was handed to her. He opened his eyes. Blue, like her own. His hair was golden, like his father's. "Lyonel," Sansa said quietly, smiling at her firstborn baby. "Lyonel Baratheon. Prince Lyonel Baratheon, the heir of the Seven Kingdoms."_

 _Before she could celebrate, the image changed again. Sansa stood in front of a body, tears running down her cheeks. Her son…her Lyonel…dead! Cut down during the prime of his youth._

 _"This is your fault," said a voice behind her. Sansa turned, wiping away her tears as she saw her lord husband enter the sept. He no longer smiled at her or kissed her hand. His lips were more pouty than usual and carried an ugly scowl. "This is your fault," he repeated, his fingers curled into fists. "My son shouldn't have went on that hunting trip with your savage brother. Look what you've done!" he yelled. "My son is DEAD!" He advanced towards her. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT! I WILL KILL YOU!" He roared furiously and delivered a blow to her stomach. Sansa doubled over, gasping in pain. "My lord…" With another savage kick, he sent Sansa flying to the wall._

 _Crack._

 _She whimpered as her husband approached her, a malicious grin forming on his wormy lips. "Now you will die…"_

* * *

Sansa's blue eyes flew wide open as she gasped in fear. "It was only a dream," she said to herself, breathing heavily. "Only a dream…" She heaved herself out of bed and slowly padded across her room to the window. She gazed out at the pale and dreary scenery of unmoving trees.

It was after dawn and she heard no bird sing; pure silence brooded inside and outside the Dreadfort. Still in her bedclothes (a cotton night robe), Sansa sat on the chair and reached for the quill and parchment on her desk. As she pondered what to write, her thoughts wandered away. She wondered what her father Lord Eddard Stark was up to. Now she wished she'd paid more attention to her family rather than her songs. If she had, she would at least have their dear memories to cherish and remember.

Already, Sansa craved to hear her father's deep, grave words; she yearned to feel her mother's comforting hand caress her cascading auburn hair; she missed listening to Arya's ridiculous notions of learning to fight with a proper sword like the boys; she wished Robb was here, relentlessly teasing her for her deep love of songs and the idea of a perfect knight; she desired to hear her brother Bran tell her about his dreams to be a knight; she wanted to ruffle little Rickon's mop of auburn hair again; and she even longed to hear Theon Greyjoy's cocky laugh and boasts and Jon's quiet words.

 _Give Domeric a chance_ , Sansa reminded herself. _Father and Mother's marriage worked out. Yours will too_. She stared out the window again. In Winterfell she had thought life was a song – that was clearly not the case.

Sansa took a deep breath and sighed.

There was no Jeyne Poole to giggle with, no Septa Mordane to please and no knight to dream about. _I have lived in the world of songs for far too long_. She had thought living in Winterfell was frugal compared to her mother's vivid stories of her childhood in Riverrun. No. It was here in the Dreadfort where life was not a song. _The Boltons must see me as little more than a southroner_ , Sansa thought. _I will show them I am as much a Northerner as they are_. No more songs. No more childish dreams. No more a fragile rose.

* * *

 **I'm still writing The Dance of Spring but I was interested in experimenting with another ASOIAF fanfic! :) This chapter sets in 297 AC and my take on Sansa will be slightly different. There probably wouldn't be that much of a difference, but I thought to point it out early. As there isn't much information about Bethany Bolton (née Ryswell), I thought she would've been influenced by a little madness in the Dreadfort after years of marriage to Roose. I hope you enjoy reading the chapter :D**


	2. Roose

A chilling smile appeared on the Lord of the Dreadfort's white face as he laid on his bed, leeches placed on his arms.

Roose chuckled as he felt his blood disappear into the leeches' mouths. Having a quick leeching in the morning always energised him for a day's work. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the Dreadfort's maester, a red-haired and round shouldered man with close-set eyes by the name of Tybald, shuffle quietly across his chambers. Since Domeric was born, Roose and Bethany had ceased sharing a bed. When Domeric left for Barrowton, Bethany moved to another room. Roose didn't care. The act of procreating was not particularly pleasant, more so with a second silent wife. Roose bore naught against a quiet wife – he actually found the silence pleasing to his ear – yet at times when he did his duty, he wondered if he wedded a highborn maiden or a statue.

"What is it Maester Tybald?" said Roose quietly, watching the maester like a spider watching its prey. Maester Tybald hovered between the thick stone door and the empty fireplace. "Speak up."

"There's a…a letter, my lord," said Maester Tybald nervously. Roose arched an eyebrow. "You are not telling me something," he murmured.

"It's…it's from Lord Stark."

"Are you frightened of the Warden of the North, Maester Tybald?" said Roose softly, knowing full well the maester was more afraid of him. "No one is afraid of Lord Eddard Stark…unless you earnt his ire." He raised his head. He turned and looked at Maester Tybald directly in the eye to the latter's utter discomfort. "Did you earn Lord Stark's hatred?"

"N-n-not at a-all m-my lord-"

"I heard that flayed men hold no secrets," said Roose casually, his eyes shining brighter like two luminous full moons as his lips curved into a ghostly grin. "Most of their last words would often be begging for mercy. Maester, take these leeches off me if you will. I'll need them again – tonight." Never had Roose Bolton met a more squeamish maester than the red-haired Tybald.

He wondered if he was able to request a more…able maester if the Dreadfort's current one happened to die. He remained silent as Maester Tybald, cold sweat running down his forehead, cautiously plucked the fat wiggling leeches from his pasty arms. He dropped the leeches back into their watery home before handing a letter bearing the direwolf sigil of House Stark to Roose. He dismissed Maester Tybald with a wave of his hand. Roose watched with grim amusement as Tybald hurried out, relief painted all over his round face.

With a soft sigh, Roose opened the letter.

 _Lord Bolton,_

 _My apologies for sending a letter to you so soon after my departure, but from father to father, I am certain you understand my concerns for my daughter Sansa._

 _I suspect you were expecting a true Northern lady as a ward and good-daughter and you must not think Sansa much of a Northerner with her love for southron songs. I'm afraid she's as much her mother's daughter as mine. I hope Sansa will grow out of girlhood soon under your care. It may be an odd request to a lord like yourself my lord of Bolton, but will you care for Sansa as your own daughter? Catelyn cannot sleep without your assurance for that my lord._

 _I hope to hear from you soon Lord Bolton._

 _Eddard Stark,_

 _Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North._

Roose snorted and scrunched it up. He lit a quick fire and tossed the letter in. He found it quite fascinating watching the bright yellow and orange flames lick it until it was as smouldering black as his breakfast of burnt bacon. He admired and respected his liege lord…to a certain extent.

The Starks of old were austere with hearts as cold as ice; Eddard Stark's heart was not as icy as his father's. It was filled with honour…perhaps too much from his stay in the Eyrie. With a sigh, Roose picked up his quill and scrawled a quick reply to soothe Lady Stark's fears. It was more plausible for Lady Catelyn Stark to worry for her daughter than Lord Stark. His own wife didn't coddle Domeric as much as Lady Stark did to her brood of pups and rarely wrote letters when their son was fostered in the Redfort under Lord Horton Redfort, one of the few non-Northern lords Roose was pleased to have as an acquaintance.

Then again, not many of the Northern lords desired to have a close affiliation with the Boltons. Before he was Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose wedded Arra Flint, a small slip of a girl from Widow's Watch too frightened to even utter a squeak after the consummation, which like his second wife's, was silent. Roose had been nineteen, Arra thirteen. In the entirety of their short-lived marriage, Roose only remembered Arra saying six words to him: "Please don't flay me my lord." She'd died shortly after from a winter chill.

Now that Roose thought of her, he recalled a slight whimper or two on Arra's part during their consummation. He chuckled to himself.

The door creaked open and Domeric appeared. "You said you wanted to speak to me after breakfast Father?"

Roose nodded and gestured at the seat opposite him. "Sit." He waited until his son was seated and began. "You are the most envied heir in the Seven Kingdoms my son. Do you know why?"

"I am to wed Sansa Stark?"

Roose leant forward, his eyes glittering ominously. "Indeed Domeric." He gave a quick glance at a piece of paper in front of him. "From what I heard, many lords wanted their heirs betrothed to the Lady Sansa. Greatjon Umber for one, Medger Cerwyn for another…even the bumbling Fat Flower of Highgarden." His chilling laugh bounced around his room. "Imagine that! The wolf and the rose united in marriage. You are more suited to be the Stark girl's future husband."

Domeric nodded slowly. "Father…did you suggest the betrothal?"

"Why do you ask?" Roose stared at him intently. "No. Lord Stark proposed the betrothal on the advice of his maester I believe. A good man Maester Luwin. One who is dedicated to Winterfell unlike his predecessor." He darkened a little. Like his good-sister Barbrey Dustin (formerly of House Ryswell), he believed Maester Walys, the former maester at Winterfell, to be responsible for Northern input in King Robert Baratheon's war. If the insolent maester had not encouraged the late Lord Rickard Stark to pursue his southron ambitions, Lord Eddard Stark would not be the Lord of Winterfell, but at least he would've had a still-living sister and elder brother. "I would have agreed for a betrothal even if Lord Stark offered you his younger daughter to be wife," Roose continued. "Domeric, you are the first of our House to be affianced to a Stark. I hope you'll be the first of House Bolton to indeed take a Stark as your true wife. I trust you will not need instruction in the art of procreating?"

His son blushed. "Not…not at all Father."

"Good." Roose eyed him. "I know you are eager to ride out to Barrowton and the Rills, but I want you to take the Lady Sansa with you, or keep her company. I am under the belief she was to bring her own maidservant with her. According to Lord Stark, something had happened and a new maidservant will be sent here as soon as possible."

"The maidservant may have been too frightened to come here."

"Coward. I would have her flayed…if she was in my household." Roose smiled thinly as Domeric shifted uneasily. "Lord Redfort sent a letter congratulating you on your betrothal." He pushed an unsealed letter towards him. "Maester Tybald must have misplaced it in my pile of letters and papers. Foolish man."

Domeric slipped the letter into his pocket. "If Lord Horton had a daughter, he would have wanted you to marry her," Roose commented. "A fine match as well. Lord Horton would be an invaluable ally. Perhaps one of your future daughters will be fortunate enough to wed one of Lord Horton's sons or future grandsons. A happy thought don't you agree?" His smile broadened. "What do you think of the Lady Sansa, Domeric? Quite pleasing to look upon is she not?"

"She's beautiful. She looks more a southron rose than a Northerner though. I feel like I am betrothed to a Tully rather than to a Stark."

"Would you've preferred wedding a wild girl of ten? I heard that Lord Stark's younger daughter, Lady Arya, is a spirited girl who has no desire to be a lady. She is quite a contrast to Lady Sansa."

"How odd. Lord Stark's elder daughter is like a Tully of Riverrun and his other daughter is like a Mormont of Bear Island!"

"Quite right Domeric. Quite right."

Domeric was silent for a moment. "What will happen to the Dreadfort if I die before marrying or impregnating Lady Sansa?"

"If your mother doesn't have any children after your death, the matter will fall before Lord Stark. He will surely find the nearest relation via blood proximity to be my successor. Whoever he is, he will take the Bolton name."

"You have no brothers, Father. No Bolton cousins either."

"Many of my predecessors preferred siring bastards or having a sole heir. Not many lords want their daughters married to Lords of the Dreadfort. Why the ah, interest in it, Domeric?"

"I heard rumours…that I have a brother. A half-brother."

Roose shook his head and gave him an indulgent smile. "You have no brother, full or otherwise. I am aware you always wanted a brother and Horton Redfort's sons felt like brothers to you, but the truth is you have no brother."

"A bastard," Domeric insisted. "There is no shame in telling me Father. A half-brother is better than no brother."

"No. You have no brother. You probably miss the company of the Redforts and tired of sparring with the household guards. A pity Lord Stark didn't want any of his sons to be fostered here. It would be beneficial for our House if you marry the future Lord of Winterfell's sister and remain on excellent terms with him." Roose shook his head regretfully. "Alas, we have Lady Stark to thank for that. The North would be much stronger and powerful if Lord Stark married a good Northern girl of noble breeding rather than a southroner."

"Lady Catelyn Stark is a warm and kind lady I believe."

"You said it yourself," Roose noted, "Lady Sansa is more Tully than Stark. I did not betroth you to a Tully. Once the Lady Sansa flowers, the two of you will wed and her parents will see a vast change in their daughter. Lord Stark will be quite pleased. As for Lady Stark…her thoughts do not matter. We bent the knee to the Starks, not the Tullys."

"Lady Stark is Lord Stark's wife-"

"I didn't call you here to discuss the level of Lady Catelyn Stark's influence on Lord Stark. Have you given your betrothed a tour yet?"

"No. I plan to once Lady Sansa finishes her prayers."

" _Her prayers?_ " Roose stared at her son with astonishment. "We do not have a sept here at the Dreadfort."

"She's praying in the godswood. Lady Sansa is of the old gods like her father as well as the Seven like her mother. The godswood needs company. Neither you, I or Mother pray as much these days. Perhaps Lady Sansa prays twice a day in the sept or godswood at Winterfell. It is not my place to stop her from praying. Who knows? Mayhap she is praying for a good married life with me." Roose cracked a tiny smile and nodded.

Domeric stood up. "Will that be all Father?"

Roose gave a stiff nod. "For now. Oh, and do tell Lady Sansa she is expected to continue her education here under Tybald." Hopefully the foolish man knew how to educate an eleven year old girl. "I suspect Maester Tybald is clueless in the art of needlework which is why your mother will spend an hour each day dedicated to sewing with Lady Sansa."

"Is Mother aware of it?"

"She will be by the end of the day." Roose followed Domeric to the door. They both left and Roose shut the door behind him. No doubt Domeric was heading to the silent godswood to find his lady betrothed. He himself was going to a place he had not set foot in for quite a good many years. _It is time now_ , he thought grimly as he bid his son good day. _I have hid from that room like a coward. It is not the Bolton way. Not in the slightest_. Even though it was still quite early in the day, the deepest dungeons were always dark, whether in the morning or at night. Roose pulled a lit torch from one of the skeletal hands protruding from the walls and silently descended towards the dungeons, his footsteps echoing sharply behind him. Roose pulled out a rusty ring of skeletal keys and stuck a particularly small one into the lock of the closest dungeon door. With a squeak that sounded like a a pig's – or human's – dying squeal, the iron door creaked open and Roose was greeted with a horrible stench that reeked of death.

Wrinkling his nose, Roose entered, the door slowly closing behind him. Like many of the Dreadfort's dungeons, this one was windowless. Originally the cell of an imprisoned Stark prince, over time it transformed into a chamber of horrific spoils and pickings collected from wars and rebellions (usually against Starks at a time when Boltons were the Red Kings).

Closest to Roose was a cloak made of skin, no doubt the flayed skin from one of the Stark prisoners a long time ago. Once Boltons would've donned a cloak like that with pride; now it hid away in the darkest dungeons. A Red King even wore the flayed skin of his enemies to his wedding day. Beside the cloak was a rotting wooden shelf stuffed with an array of skulls, a few still bearing strips of flesh. On the right were more cloaks of flayed skin and on a small stool resided a small box embellished with layers of dust.

Roose placed the torch into the grasp of another skeletal hand, this one coated with cobwebs and another sprinkle of dust. Pulling on leather gloves, he reached out and delicately opened the box. A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips. It was a box of rotting cocks. _I wonder which one of my superb ancestors decided to collect a box of cocks,_ he thought, closing the box. There was another shelf packed with skulls and other bones that looked suspiciously like fingers. _Hmm. Five skulls and five cocks…_ Roose frowned as he racked his brain of Bolton history. It didn't take him long to realise it was his grandfather Lord Ramsay Bolton who contributed five skulls and five cocks to the gruesome collection. Oddly enough, Roose wasn't particularly surprised at that. After all, it was Grandfather Ramsay who'd showed him the beautiful art of leeching.

When Grandfather Ramsay was alive, he earnt the respect of Edwyle Stark – the Lord of Winterfell at the time – by his keen enthusiasm in hanging criminals. His reputation grew so far that people from the Wall to the Neck whispered and called him, "the Hangman". Ironically, Lord Ramsay Bolton was hanged after his crime of kinslaying was discovered. As he was a lord, he would've been beheaded but Lord Edwyle Stark opted to hang him. It seemed the Starks had a sort of dark humour after all. From what Roose heard, Ramsay's father Lord Rogar, had a vast and unquenchable thirst for hunting animals and bedding women. His poor wife died giving him Ramsay and he sired another five bastards. It was not much of a surprise that Ramsay would slaughter his bastard brothers; keeping their skulls and cocks didn't come as much of a revelation either.

He could not help but chuckle as he caught sight of three more pieces of flayed skin. _My great grand aunt Rylla the Red_. Now that Lady of the Dreadfort carried a fascinating story with her even after she died. When Rylla Bolton was young, like any noblewoman, she was married off for the good of the Dreadfort, her husband a Ser Beron Hornwood. After he died rather mysteriously a year later, she took another husband, a Karstark, and after he too died, she wedded an Umber. Upon their deaths, she declared them to have all died in hunting accidents or illnesses. It seemed that was not the case. It was said that Rylla too committed the crime of kinslaying by flaying her own brother, Rogar Bolton, and usurping her nephew's place as Lady of the Dreadfort.

Roose surveyed the chamber of horrors for a few more minutes. A small part of him could not help but be proud of the bloody trophies on display. The people might sing of Lord Stark's honour, but they whisper in fear of the Boltons – just the way Roose liked it.

Admittedly the Bolton lineage was near extinction with only him and Domeric left. Lady Sansa Stark was of fertile stock and once married, would be able to give Domeric a number of healthy sons and a few beautiful daughters would always be a welcome sight. Roose could not imagine himself coddling grandchildren no matter how sweet and lively they were. When Domeric was born, it was Bethany who kept an eye on him along with the previous maester.

Locking the door behind him, Roose climbed up the stone steps with the torch in hand, the only glow to light his way up. He hadn't showed Domeric that room of yet – he planned not to. After all his efforts to maintain a peaceful land and an excellent relationship with Lord Stark to strengthen his House's influence, he did not want a son with an interest in flaying and cruelty.

Roose returned the torch to its rightful place and went to Bethany's chambers. He knocked on the door and entered, not waiting for a response. His wife's room was of equal size to his own but more well-furnished and decorated. In his own chambers the only ornament Roose had was a banner of the flayed man hanging near the iron door.

Glancing around Bethany's room, he noticed that every wall was adorned with tapestries of some sort. On the closest wall hung a drapery of the Bolton sigil: a flayed man intricately sewed from blood red thread on a pink field littered with droplets of blood as red as rubies. Adjacent to it on the next wall was the sigil of her father's House, a black horse's head with its eyes and mane red on a bronze field within a black engrailed border. Across from it was Lady Dustin's personal banner of the quartered spiked black crown and two crossed long axes of House Dustin with the golden horse head of her father Rodrik Ryswell. The last wall in Bethany's chamber was surprisingly vacant.

"Bethany," said Roose softly, glancing down at his wife. Bethany was sewing a new tapestry this time. Bethany Bolton was not the prettiest Northern highborn maiden but she was still comely to look upon. In her usual attire of dark grey and brown furs, she had decided to wear ruby earrings – a wedding gift from Roose. Another kinder Bolton tradition it seemed was for all the Ladies of the Dreadfort to be given a pair of ruby earrings that looked like droplets of blood.

"You will spend an hour a day with Lady Sansa," Roose told her. "It will begin tomorrow, do you hear me?"

"An hour a day…" Bethany repeated in a hushed whisper. "What am I to do in that time, my lord? What am I to do with the little wolf?"

Roose had gotten used to his wife's odd antics and words. "Sew with her. Talk to her. Befriend her." He noticed what she had begun sewing. "Bethany, is that a direwolf you are sewing?"

"The Stark sigil my lord." Bethany caressed the grey direwolf's head she had started stitching. "Once it is finished, I will hang it over there. A perfect fit, do you not agree? Your House, my father's House, my sister's House and my soon-to-be-good-daughter's House."

"Quite appropriate." Roose stood awkwardly near the door. "I will see you at supper soon I hope?"

"Indeed. We will sup with the little wolf…"

* * *

 **I meant to upload a chapter earlier but unfortunately I was busy with the mountain of uni homework. Sadly juggling uni homework, work, writing 2 fanfics and maintaining a sort-of social life isn't as easy as I thought it would be. I'll try and upload another chapter of this with The Dance of Spring sometime soon. Ramsay Snow will appear eventually :)**


	3. Eddard

With a weary sigh, Ned Stark rose from his bed and stared out the window as the sun slowly rose to its throne in the sky. He had tossed and turned throughout the night, hearing Cat's heartbreaking sobs.

This could not go on.

Ned wrote a quick letter to the Lord of the Dreadfort and had a sleepy Maester Luwin send it at once. He hoped a quick reply would soothe Catelyn's fears. Ned's own heart tightened as he headed down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Usually the smell of a hearty breakfast warmed him up; today it made him feel ill. _What if Sansa is not used to food at the Dreadfort?_ He thought worriedly. Sansa was not a particularly fussy eater but she did have a rather delicate stomach. That day with the deer and the stew…he shuddered. He'd told Roose about it – hopefully Roose wouldn't order his cooks to serve venison stew to Sansa.

He pushed the oak and iron doors open and walked to the raised platform. Not many people were awake yet. Only Jon was there, poking at his breakfast of eggs and bacon. Ned sat down beside him and glanced at the eight long rows of empty trestle tables. Most of the Winterfell household must still be asleep.

"Jon." Ned nodded at his bastard son. "You are up early."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Oh? What is on your mind?"

"Nothing much I suppose." Jon chewed on a piece of bacon. "Winterfell is more quiet without Sansa."

 _Sansa hardly spoke to you when she was here_. "Aye," Ned agreed, grabbing a slice of bread and scooping up a good portion of scrambled eggs. "It's been only a few days though. Surely by next week all will hopefully…" His voice trailed off. He would never cease worrying about Sansa. Neither would Catelyn nor anyone else in Winterfell. Perhaps it was a mistake sending Sansa to the Dreadfort at such the tender age of eleven.

 _You were fostered at the Eyrie at the age of eight_ , a voice in Ned's head pointed out. Not many girls were sent away to be fostered. It was usually the young boys lords sent for fostering, not their daughters.

He smiled as he remembered a pleasant thought from his childhood. "What is it Father?" said Jon, noticing it at once. Ned chuckled quietly. "A thought," he said, still smiling. "Before I left to be a ward of Lord Arryn's, my brother Brandon was about to leave for Barrowton. My father had arranged for him to be Lord Dustin's ward even though Brandon spent most of his time riding in the Rills. During one of Brandon's visits home, he told us of the fields he rode on and the streams he rode passed with such vivid description that our sister Lyanna demanded to be a ward of Lord Dustin too. Of course it is Lord Ryswell who ruled the Rills, but the Ryswells and Dustins have always been close allies in the past.

"When Father said one Stark at Barrowton, Lyanna waited until Brandon left for Barrowton and followed him on her little pony. Back then, Lyanna was only a girl of what…four or five, yet she could ride as well as any man thrice her age. At the time, my father was busy with final preparations for my fostering at the Vale and was unaware of Lyanna's little escape. Lyanna successfully trailed Brandon up to Torrhen's Square before Brandon discovered her stealing an apple from his supplies. He informed Father by raven and asked Lord Cerwyn to escort Lyanna home. It was astonishing how Lyanna followed Brandon and his guards for over two days without them noticing."

Jon laughed a little. "She sounded determined," he remarked.

"Aye. She was." Ned gazed at his dark haired son with grey eyes so dark that it bordered on black. He abruptly stood up.

"Father?" said Jon Snow, startled.

Mumbling an apology, Ned left the Great Hall in a hurry. He hated himself for this. How could he apologise and explain everything to Jon when he'd reminded him of everyone he had lost? Of Brandon, Lyanna, his father Lord Rickard Stark and everyone who had died in Robert's war. Ned sighed. When was there ever a day he did not need to worry?

He paused as he found himself in the courtyard. Just yesterday afternoon Ned watched the master-at-arms Ser Rodrik Cassel shout at Robb, Jon and Theon in a sparring session. He even caught sight of Arya stealing Jon's wooden sword after he discarded it for his bow. Ned was relieved Arya wasn't interested in archery – as of yet. Defending her desire to learn swordplay was one thing; to be an expert archer was another matter.

Catelyn might accept the reason for Arya learning swordplay as a sort of self-defence purpose, but archery? She would not be pleased. Ned almost laughed at the thought of Catelyn's reaction to the idea of Arya as a ward of the Mormonts in Bear Island. Catelyn would not like it at all. Arya would love an opportunity to be trained like the women of House Mormont…

"Ned?"

Ned turned around. A sleepy Catelyn stood behind him, her abundant auburn hair trapped under the grey furred trim of her cloak. Her bright blue eyes looked at him inquisitively. "You were not in bed," she explained, stepping closer to him. She reached out and squeezed his hand. "I thought you would go for a walk. That was what you did when you were agitated or uncertain when we first married in the sept at Riverrun. I would wake in the early morning, alone in bed. You would have already risen from our bed hours earlier and would be pacing around with Ice strapped to your back.

"Being the curious girl I was, I would wonder what was on your mind. At times I even hoped you would speak to me about them. I was a fool was I not? We met once before, but I viewed you a stranger as you did to me. You would walk alone for hours before speaking to my father, Robert Baratheon or Lord Arryn."

Ned nodded. "You should sleep more, Cat."

"How can I sleep when all I think about is Sansa all alone in the Dreadfort? It was wrong of Jeyne Poole to shirk away from joining her. If Arya isn't so…wild, I would've asked Septa Mordane to accompany Sansa."

"Lord Bolton will be a fool to harm Sansa."

"I don't care if Lord Roose Bolton is a steadfast bannerman or not Ned. Do you know what people call him behind his back? The Leech Lord. How can I possibly sleep well here whilst knowing Sansa is living under his roof?" Catelyn gripped his hand tighter. "Ned, I want my daughter back. Please."

Ned sighed. "A pact is a pact, Catelyn. I cannot go back on my word. Sansa will be Lord Bolton's ward until she is of marriageable age-"

"A horrible pact," Catelyn cut in as sharply as a knife slicing through a block of freshly churned yellow butter. "Who gives away their daughter at a young age of eleven? Do you intend to only see her on her wedding day and never again after that? Sansa may not get along well with Arya, but what of her other siblings? She will never know them! She will be like…like…" Ned frowned slightly. _Like Jon?_ He wanted to ask testily. _Not today_ , he silently told himself. Catelyn was grieving for the departure of their daughter; the tiniest mention of Jon would anger her. Ned gently led her towards the Great Keep.

"Go and rest," he murmured. "You have other children who need their mother, Rickon for one. Robb will need you too."

Catelyn managed the tiniest of smiles. "Our children are growing up, but I will always think of them as our children. Imagine the day Robb presents us with his first child – our first grandchild. It will not be long now."

Ned nodded in agreement. "Go and rest," he said again. "You are tired. I'll have a servant bring you your breakfast on a tray. Stay in your chambers, Cat. You will need your strength back."

"I am not ill," Catelyn protested feebly.

"You are sick with worry about Sansa. Would you like to hear Maester Luwin's opinion? I'm certain he will agree with me and implore you to rest in your room for at least two days. By then, you will be told at least a dozen of Arya's schemes in avoiding sewing or whatever it is she despises."

"She despises everything Sansa loves. Dancing, singing, sewing…" She sighed a little and glanced longingly at her flat stomach. "I am not too old to bear another child," she said, her tone hopeful. "If I do carry your child, I wish for another girl, Ned. I want another daughter."

"We still have Arya. Do you not think five children are enough, Cat? Your lady mother died in childbirth and your sister suffered many miscarriages before she gave her husband a son. It seems the will of the gods that those of Whent blood will suffer in childbearing. Chances of you surviving childbed are slimmer every year. I…I don't want to lose you too."

"I have survived five times, Ned. Once more will not hurt. Do you not want one more daughter? We can name her Lyanna, after your sister."

That was the last thing Ned wanted. Every letter his friend and foster brother King Robert sent (fewer now), mentioned her name. _Seven Hells Ned_ , he recalled from the latest letter. _If I had Lyanna at my side instead of my Lannister wife, I'd no longer have to rely on wine to remain sane_. Clearly Robert's marriage to Lady Cersei Lannister was unhappy from the start. From what Ned retained, Cersei of House Lannister was a beautiful woman. Slightly cold, but beautiful. Robert loved beautiful woman – surely he would have learnt to love his wife? Ned realised in a few days after Robert and Cersei's wedding that with Robert's obsession over the deceased Lyanna and Cersei's icy nature, their marriage was doomed. However, Cersei did give Robert three children: Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen. Ned hadn't met them but always imagined the boys to look like Robert.

"We will see Sansa again," said Ned, hoping to change Catelyn's mind of having another child. "Give it a few months Cat, and then maybe we can invite both our daughter and Domeric Bolton to Winterfell for a few days. I am quite interested in meeting our future good-son."

"I am too," Catelyn said with a worried look. "I hope Domeric Bolton is nothing like his ancestors. What if he harms Sansa?"

"Do not fear," Ned soothed her. "Domeric sounds like a decent young man – he was fostered at the Redfort in the Vale no less. Give him a chance, Cat. He might be the perfect husband for our daughter."

* * *

Waiting for him on his desk were a stack of new letters. Ned sighed heavily to himself and sat down. No doubt the majority of them were betrothal proposals – a couple of which most likely from Walder Frey of the Crossing, an old, bald and frankly unpleasant River lord. _How many times must I decline his offer?_ Catelyn informed him once that when she and her siblings Lysa and Edmure were born, Walder Frey sent offers of marriage between them and his numerous offspring. It was said that he told Lord Hoster Tully that when Edmure was old enough to be wed, he could pick any Frey girl to his fancy and her dowry would be her weight in silver. It was generous, but Lord Tully declined.

The solar door opened and Maester Luwin, quietly shuffled in, the clinking of his chain interrupting the moment of silence that had settled in Ned's solar. "My lord," Maester Luwin greeted him. "You called for me?"

Winterfell's maester followed a sort of schedule he created for himself when he arrived at Winterfell many years ago. When Ned questioned him about it, he'd replied, "A habit I brought from the Citadel Lord Stark." Every morning Maester Luwin would appear in the solar whether Ned summoned him or not; after about an hour or a little more, he would go to the schoolroom and teach Arya and Bran their letters and numbers; soon Robb, Jon and Theon would arrive and he would educate them on a range of subjects in the early afternoon ranging from history of Westeros, history of the noble houses, geography and basic politics. If that was not enough, the tireless maester would return to his tower to collect or send any letters and reappear in the solar for another hour or two of discussion. Only the old gods knew what time Luwin rose in the morning and retired at night. Ned felt more than grateful for the Citadel to send such a helpful and reliable maester – a more suitable maester than his predecessor by far.

"Maester Luwin." Ned gestured for him to sit down. "Have you eaten?"

"I have," Maester Luwin replied. He reached into one of his many pockets and drew out a folded letter sealed with the Bolton seal. "An early raven my lord – it's from Lord Bolton."

"Thank you Maester Luwin." Ned took it and opened it at once.

 _Lord Stark,_

 _Your daughter will return to you a true Northern girl. I will see that no harm will come upon her as long as she remains my ward._

 _Roose Bolton,_

 _Lord of the Dreadfort._

Unsurprisingly it was short and to the point. It was still slightly comforting to hear though. For a faint second, he wondered if Roose knew how to raise a child, let alone a girl. From what he heard, Domeric was as much a stranger in his own home as Sansa was in the Dreadfort.

"Is that another letter from Lord Frey?" The maester nodded at the top letter sealed with the familiar blue bridge of House Frey.

"That man does not know a refusal when he is given one," Ned complained. "I do not remember how many refusal letters I sent to him."

"Quite a good many my lord."

"Was it a wise decision to keep my sons here, Maester? I was fostered, my lord father was fostered, his father before him was fostered too. Young boys are also fostered in the south too. Was I too cowardly to keep my sons here?" Catelyn did not want their sons fostered either. He already hurt her greatly by having Jon at Winterfell; he did not wish to upset her further. He was curious about what Lord Tully thought of fostering. He had a boy fostered at Riverrun, but he had kept his only son at Riverrun.

"Not all Northern lords were fostered," said Maester Luwin calmly. "You have your reasons for keeping your sons at Winterfell."

"The king always wanted Robb or Bran raised at King's Landing along with his sons – a closer alliance and all – and perhaps I should have agreed."

"It is not too late my lord."

"Hmm. Catelyn will not be impressed if I begin considering marriage alliances without her, but as you know, she isn't ah, well at the moment. With Sansa set to marry Domeric, I must turn my attention to Robb."

"Of course. Lady Sansa's betrothal to Domeric solidifies the North – maybe my lord, you will consider a southron match for Robb?"

Ned instinctively frowned. "A southron match?" His siblings were betrothed to Catelyn and Robert – neither of those matches fell through. Perhaps the old gods deemed it fit for Starks to wed within the north of Westeros.

"Summer will not last forever," Maester Luwin pointed out. "When it ends and winter comes, it will be a long winter my lord. The North will be ready with furs and firewood, but what of stores? The southron regions flourish in the fields but not much with furs. A southron match would benefit the North significantly Lord Stark, especially a match with the Reach."

"The Reach?" The Siege at Storm's End immediately flooded his mind. "You are suggesting I offer Arya to a Tyrell? She is much younger than all of Lord Tyrell's sons and I doubt she will settle to a demure, ladylike life in Highgarden."

"My lord, I believe Lord Tyrell has a daughter."

Ned bit his lip. "Do you think it is wise, Maester? Having an alliance with the Reach for food supplies is one thing, but the southroners hardly lived through a harsh winter! Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island married the girl's aunt, Lynesse Hightower, and look how that turned out! Besides, what will my lord bannermen think? They will take offence that Robb weds a lady of the Reach rather than one of their own daughters." He did not even need to imagine Lord Greatjon Umber's furious expression or Lord Rickard Karstark's. Both had daughters about Robb's age and many Starks had married Umbers and Karstarks in the past. Lord Tyrell would certainly not accept a second son for his only daughter and Lord Karstark would not be pleased at all if his daughter was rebuffed for the Tyrell girl.

"Lord Karstark has three sons," noted Maester Luwin.

"Three sons…" Arya hated the thought of marriage, but what other choice was there? From what Ned recalled, Lord Karstark's youngest son was the closest in age to Arya. If Arya and Lord Karstark's son Eddard were to wed, it would most certainly please the Northerners. Starks and Karstarks have married for decades – though not recently. Ned inwardly groaned as he suddenly remembered the fat Lord of White Harbour. He would want a Stark good-son…and relations between House Stark and Houses Dustin and Ryswell had not improved since the end of Robert's war when Ned rode to Barrowton. He could not help but wonder if all the betrothal dilemmas would end if Jon was one of his trueborn children. One of the betrothal problems would be solved if he married Alys Karstark or one of the Manderly girls. A thought crossed his mind.

"Theon is old enough to marry." Maester Luwin did not look surprised that he suddenly mentioned his Greyjoy ward. "As his guardian, it is my duty to secure a bride for him," Ned continued. "I had considered Alys Karstark, but in truth she is betrothed to Daryn Hornwood and the only other young man her father Rickard would accept as good-son is Robb. One day I would be obliged to return Theon to the Iron Islands, and when that day comes, I want the North and the Iron Islands to remain on good terms with a guarantee that the Ironborn would not retaliate and raid our shores. The Iron Islands is a cold, damp place and the Ironborn will not treat kindly to their future Northern Lady of Pyke."

" The Mormonts will not fear the Iron Islands."

"Indeed, Maester, but not all the Ironborn will be pleased." He doubted any of the Ironborn would be pleased with a Northern Lady of Pyke, Mormont or no. "It was said that one of my ancestors, Rodrik Stark, won Bear Island from a King of the Iron Islands in a wrestling match. However, I will still broach the matter of a betrothal between Theon and one of the Mormont girls to Lady Maege Mormont. I will write the letter in the afternoon."

"Very good my lord. Shall I procure Lady Stark a cup of dreamwine to help her sleep? I understand the ah, departure of Lady Sansa can be quite distressing for a good mother like Lady Stark." Ned nodded in agreement. He hoped his wife was already settled back in bed, but if not…perhaps dreamwine would be good. Even though Sansa left for the Dreadfort less than a few days ago, Catelyn had not had a good night's rest in weeks. "Give her a cup," Ned muttered. "Only today though. If she hasn't fallen asleep."

"Very well Lord Stark." Maester Luwin rose. "Will that be all?"

"Yes." Ned needed to have a long conversation with Arya. Lord Karstark would agree to the match within an instant. Convincing Arya… that would take at least a few hours, if not more. Where was she anyway? He doubted she was sitting with the other girls, attending her needlework. Without Sansa threatening to tell their mother about Arya avoiding sewing sessions, keeping an eye out on Arya would be harder than ever. He worried for Cat. She always wanted her daughters to be perfect ladies – it was not her fault that Arya was more Stark and was more wolf-blooded like Brandon and Lyanna.

By chance, Ned glanced out the window to the courtyard. As he guessed, Arya was there, lingering near the practice dummies, a small wooden sword in hand. However, something was different. Ned squinted. Arya was not sparring or even stabbing the practice dummies. She looked…sad.

* * *

 **Honestly, I didn't really enjoy writing this chapter. Personally I prefer writing AUs and totally messing relationships and marriages around like I did in The Dance of Spring, but I hate leaving a story unfinished so I'll continue with this one - I'll spend more time on The Dance of Spring of course :)**


	4. Sansa II

Breakfast was as gloomy and silent as supper last night. At Winterfell, sunlight would stream through the windows – even during winter.

Sansa picked at her food. She was not particularly hungry and still recalled the horrible smell of venison stew. The doors swung open and the Boltons walked in, first Lord Bolton, then Lady Bolton, her white face etched with a wide smile and finally her betrothed, Domeric. If any of them were astonished to Sansa breaking her fast so early in the morning, they did not utter a single word of surprise and their expressions remained impassive.

"Lady Sansa," Lord Bolton acknowledged softly. "I hope you slept well."

"Quite thank you," said Sansa quietly. She hardly slept at all. Every hour, she'd tossed and turned and she could have sworn she heard creaking or the sound of her door knob rattling.

"You lie…little wolf," Lady Bolton sat down beside her. She stared at her with a ghostly grin. "There are shadows under your eyes…do not fear, my dear. I have a special cream for that."

"No thank you Lady Bolton," said Sansa nervously. She bit down a cold shiver as her future good-mother grabbed her wrist.

" _Bethany_ ," Lord Bolton warned. His wife released her slowly and began slicing her rasher of bacon into smaller pieces. "My sister will be visiting us today," Lady Bolton announced. "She said she was quite keen to meet the new addition in our family." She glanced at Sansa. Her stomach pitted with worry, Sansa tried to eat a spoonful of cold porridge that tasted and looked like bare grey paste. She wanted to ask for a teaspoon of sugar, but she held her tongue.

"When will Aunt Barbrey arrive?" asked Domeric.

"In the afternoon," replied Lady Bolton, dropping her pieces of bacon onto her bowl of porridge. "Perhaps she has another fine horse for you."

"Another one?" said Lord Bolton, shaking his head. "At this rate, Domeric will have a whole stable full of horses. He is of the North, not a crippled southron heir who has naught better to do than breed a stable of horses. Besides, on Domeric's last name day, your father sent him another horse."

"Horses are good my lord," said Lady Bolton, scooping up her scrambled eggs – very runny – and watching it drip onto her porridge. "When it comes to war, it is horses that soldiers ride. When it comes to travelling for business or leisure, it is horses we rely on." She paused. "When winter comes, it will be horseflesh that we eat." Her lips curved into another smile. Sansa swallowed and remained silent as she forced down another spoonful of porridge. At Winterfell, she found gruel and porridge distasteful; now she missed it.

"Would you care for something else Sansa?" Domeric inquired. All eyes turned to Sansa. She felt her cheeks grow hot. "No thank you," she managed to say. "I…I am not really hungry this morning."

"You have such a small appetite Lady Sansa," Lord Bolton remarked. "The last thing we want is for you to…wither away." His pale, eerie eyes shone as if he was telling a jape. "You must speak up, Lady Sansa, if you find something distasteful. I want you to be comfortable here."

Sansa smiled tightly. It was rude to complain about the porridge. "I am a little homesick," she explained. "That is all."

Lord Bolton smiled widely. "That ailment can be easily cured, Lady Sansa." He looked at his son. "Domeric, Lady Sansa is not hungry and is feeling…homesick. It is about time to give her the tour of the Dreadfort, eh? By the end of the day, Lady Sansa will no longer feel homesick. Perhaps she will find more of an appetite by the end of it do you not agree?"

"Of course Father," Domeric responded. He stood up. "Lady Sansa?"

As Sansa walked up to him, she heard Lady Bolton murmur, "No more venison stew tonight…the dogs have ate it…ate it all…" Suppressing a shiver, Sansa took Domeric's hand and hurried out the Great Hall. She hoped Lady Bolton would be more…more calm during supper tonight.

"Are you unwell?" said Domeric, concerned, once they were out of earshot. "If you are, I can take you to the maester."

Sansa shook her head. She couldn't tell him how she was frightened of his lady mother, found the porridge inedible and hated venison stew. "Homesick," Sansa managed to say. "That is all."

"I was homesick too when I arrived at the Redfort," said Domeric, leading her slowly away from the Great Hall. "No doubt not as much as you, but I still wanted to return to the North – not to here, I'm almost as much a stranger as you, but to Barrowton, the home of my aunt Barbrey. I don't wish to bore you with all the ah, details, but when I arrived at the Redfort, Lord Horton's sons welcomed me as if I was a long-lost brother and soon, I found my three years at the Redfort were the best three years of my life. Sansa, when I was a boy, I always wanted brothers of my own – I still do. In the Redfort, I found four brothers.

"I trained with them, I ate with them, I rode with them. After three years, I did not want to return here. The Redfort was my home. However, my father recalled me. I was to marry. The time for fun was over." He smiled sadly. "You and I are to be married soon enough, Lady Sansa. I want you _happy_. I want the few years you spend here before we marry to be the happiest of your life. It will be hard as you must have had a wonderful childhood, but I will do my best to please you. I want to know you before we marry. I want our marriage to be for love."

"You'll not be angry if I tell you the truth?" Sansa dared to say. Domeric arched an eyebrow. "Of course not…" he said uncertainly.

"I do not like venison stew," Sansa said in a rush. "I _hate_ venison stew. I had to attend a hunting trip and I watched Theon kill a deer…" She felt sick. The urge to vomit was very real.

"You will never be forced to eat venison stew again," Domeric vowed. "What is it that you enjoy eating?"

"Lemon cakes." Her face lit up with delight as she remembered the sweet and lemony taste of lemon cakes. She first tasted a lemon cake on her fifth name day – she still recalled every moment of it. She had never consumed anything so…so delicious. The light in her eyes dimmed slightly. Arya always enjoyed reminding her that she threw manners away when it came to lemon cakes.

Domeric cocked his head to one side curiously. "Lemon cakes?"

"You never ate one?"

He shook his head. "Lemons are uncommon in the North are they not? You've seen and tasted the food of the Dreadfort. Father doesn't like delicacies favoured by the south. I will go and see what I can do." He frowned slightly.

"What is it?"

"Nothing my lady." Domeric's frown vanished. "Shall we proceed with the tour of the Dreadfort?"

Sansa nodded. "Let us begin in the courtyard," Domeric suggested. He led her out the door and to the courtyard. A strong gust of wind blew in Sansa's face the moment the iron doors slammed shut behind them. It was much colder here than in Winterfell. _Much_ colder.

Domeric laughed softly as he saw her shudder at the wind's icy touch. "May I?" He took off his black furred cloak and draped it over her shoulders. "It must be much warmer at Winterfell," he remarked. "You are a Northerner Sansa! What is it that your House says? _Winter Is Coming_. Winter will catch the Wall first, Skagos and Bear Island next, then it will creep upon the mountain clans and Last Hearth before capturing Deepwood Motte and Karhold, and finally the Dreadfort."

"It is still summer," Sansa could not help murmuring.

"Summer will not last forever." Domeric pointed to a tall tower decorated with triangular merlons that looked like sharp stone teeth. "See there? That is Maester Tybald's chambers and the rookery. The tower over there house our rooms and all the guest chambers. The tower behind that one is apparently another library." He hesitated. "More a private one only for the Lord of the Dreadfort. The towers closest to the main gate are where the guards rest and reside. The back ones are basically barracks for Father's soldiers."

"The Dreadfort is like a fortress."

"Indeed. Would you like to see the stables?" he sounded hopeful. Sansa smiled at him. "Of course." She followed him to the back of the Dreadfort. Like the front, Sansa caught sight of an endless cluster of trees peeking over the stone walls. "It is more quiet here," spoke Domeric. _It is quiet everywhere_ , Sansa thought. _There's no sound here – not even a bird's call_.

"Father does not come here often," Domeric continued, leading her closer to a line of stables. "He thinks horses are necessities, not friends." Sansa said nothing. She always felt sore after riding. "I always enjoyed riding," Domeric went on. "Do you, Sansa?" He looked at her.

"I do not mind riding," said Sansa uncertainly. "Arya loves riding more than I do. She can ride for days."

Domeric opened the huge stable door. Sansa saw about half a dozen horses, all as red as fire, some full-grown and others still foals. One of them – a red palfrey – trotted up to them and neighed affectionately. "Good morning Rose," he said, his icy blue eyes shining with love. "You are well today?" He fed her a generous lump of sugar. "Rose?" Sansa questioned. That was an odd name for a horse. Arya often said that when she owned a horse of her own, she would name her Nymeria after the Rhoynish warrior queen. Domeric smiled. "Aunt Barbrey gifted me with Rose when I was a boy of seven."

"She is your first horse?"

"Yes. A name day gift. My first name day gift in fact."

Sansa stared at him, astonished. "Your _first_ name day gift Domeric?" When she turned two, Mother had given her a stuffed direwolf as a name day present. She'd long outgrown it and it was now a patched little thing Rickon dragged around all over the grounds of Winterfell.

Domeric nodded. "My father doesn't believe in the custom of gift-giving. When I was six, he taught me how to use a crossbow. All day I practised and he refused to permit me to return inside the castle until I mastered it. By the time I shot the target, it was dark."

Sansa was horrified. How cruel!

"It was a good lesson," he said, catching sight of her shocked expression. "Now I know how to shoot as well as…as well as a wildling." He smiled for a second; it vanished just as quickly.

"What is it?" said Sansa cautiously.

"Rose." Rose the horse neighed softly and sniffed at Domeric, probably hoping to be fed another sugar cube. Sansa sensed something sad. "What is it Domeric?" she asked quietly.

"You do not want to hear it," said Domeric with a forced smile. "I do not wish to dampen your spirits here my lady."

"Are we back to my lady, _my lord?_ I am to be your wife soon. I am not afraid to hear a story that may…that may force me to have absolutely no appetite for our supper." She blushed once the words fled her lips. By the old gods and new, how rude it was of her to say such words! "I am sorry," she said in a small voice. "I do not mean to pry my lord."

Frankly, Domeric looked faintly amused. "Nothing in my tale will be bloody or gory enough for you to lose your appetite _my lady_. If you wish to know, I will tell you – tonight. Before supper, will you meet me here?"

Sansa nodded without an ounce of hesitation. "Yes. Forgive me if I come late – I am still not used to wandering the grounds of the Dreadfort. If you do not mind me saying, the Dreadfort feels awfully large and empty. Winterfell felt more cosy due to the larger number of people there. I will try and not be delayed Domeric. I will come though, I promise." Her stomach fluttered _. Have I made a vow before at all?_ Sansa wondered. There was one with Jeyne Poole…that went nowhere.

"I look forward to it." Domeric beamed at her. "Shall we return inside? There's not much else to show you of the Dreadfort as most of the rooms are locked and I doubt you will be interested in some of the rooms that are open."

"Who do you train with now?"

"My father's men mostly." He hesitated. "When Father told me you were to be my wife, I had hoped…I know it sounds foolish, but I had hoped to meet one or a few of your brothers, perhaps even to spar with them for an hour or so. Father's men are not afraid to be rough towards me, but they weren't taught how to fight by a master-at-arms. The men are better as soldiers than sparring companions. It is petty of me to think that-"

"Not at all," Sansa cut in. "As the heir of the Dreadfort, you require young men to train with. I was a selfish girl, a foolish girl. I yearned to have a little sister – a proper highborn lady like me. Not Arya. I would tell on her when she missed our sewing sessions and smile when our septa told her off. I would call her names – mean ones – and laugh with Jeyne Poole whenever Arya was in trouble. One time I thought Arya was a bastard because she looked more like Jon than Robb, Bran, me and even Rickon. We would fight over petty things…" Her voice trailed off. "I miss her. I wish I'd spent more time with her now." It had only been a mere day and a half and she missed her wild sister.

"We will see her again, Lady Sansa. I promise you."

"You will have a chance to spar against my brothers one day, Domeric. I know you will." She took his hand and they slowly walked back inside the castle, both wrapped in their own thoughts and surrounded by a mist of silence. The moment of quietude was interrupted when Domeric grunted in surprise as they saw the iron portcullis rise in the courtyard. Sansa slowed in her tracks and watched two guards ride in, both in Dustin liveries of black and yellow. Her heart thudded as another rider came into view, this one a woman.

Domeric walked up to her and Sansa was obliged to follow. The lady gracefully dismounted her copper-red horse and began peeling off her riding gloves. From her brownish-grey hair tied tightly in a widow's knot to the bottom of her skirt trimmed with fur, she was wrapped in black. A black furred cloak, a black gown, everything plain black except the cloak clasp which was fashioned in the shape of a shield painted with what appeared to be the lady's personal sigil: the quartered spiked crown and crossed long axes of House Dustin with the golden horse head of House Ryswell.

"It seems my aunt has arrived early," Domeric murmured so softly that Sansa barely heard him. "She must be excited to meet you." Sansa bit her lip. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as Domeric's maternal aunt began to walk towards them slowly, her sharp eyes seemingly fixed on her. Lady Dustin was tall and still quite handsome for a lady her age despite the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. As a young woman, she must have been very beautiful.

A smile broke on Lady Dustin's face as Domeric kissed her hand. "Welcome to the Dreadfort Aunt," Domeric said politely, happiness radiating from his icy blue eyes and wide grin. "You have not visited in quite some time."

"The last I visited was your return," Lady Barbrey Dustin responded, hugging him warmly. "I was rather busy with affairs at Barrowton, Nephew. Besides, you enjoyed riding through the barrowlands and the Rills. I see no reason to deprive you of that joy, eh?"

Domeric laughed. "Why did you arrive early, Aunt?"

"To spend more time with you, your mother of course and to see your lovely wife-to-be. A little bird told me she has arrived." Lady Dustin turned and looked at Sansa, her smile now a grim thin line. Sansa's skin prickled as she felt the Lady of Barrowton scrutinise her from her hair to her feet.

"Lady Sansa Stark," the formidable lady said finally. "You look more like your mother than your father. You could be mistaken for a southroner." Sansa blushed pink with embarrassment. She had never been described as a southroner before. _Ever_. "I hope Domeric is wedding a Stark, not a Tully," Lady Dustin went on, her cold eyes never leaving Sansa's, "so tell me Lady Sansa, are you more Stark or are you more Tully?"

"Mother is expecting you," said Domeric hastily. "I will have the stableboy take care of your horses. After supper, I will go and feed them a little bit of sugar as I will do to my own horses. You must be tired from your journey Aunt. Two days' ride from Hornwood? Mother mentioned that you were travelling with two of my uncles – your brothers – from Barrowton?"

"Yes I was," affirmed Lady Dustin, allowing Domeric to lead her towards the Great Hall's iron doors. "Your grandfather finally found more interest in forging an alliance with the Manderlys of White Harbour rather than tending his herd of fine horses. If all goes well, one of your uncles – probably Roose – will marry one of Lord Manderly's granddaughters, most likely the elder one."

Lady Wynafryd Manderly? Was she not Domeric's age? Lady Dustin glanced at Sansa again. "You look thin," she observed plainly. "Do you have a small appetite Lady Sansa? You must eat more. When I was still a Ryswell, I too had little to no appetite. Do you know what my father said to me? If I didn't eat more, I wouldn't have the strength to survive the oncoming winter."

"Lady Sansa will eat more," spoke Domeric. "This is her second day here, Aunt. Well, her first full day as she arrived yesterday afternoon. Give her some time. In a few months, we will ride to you at Barrowton and you will see Lady Sansa as a lady of the North that she is."

Lady Dustin smiled wryly. "If you say so, Nephew. I do commend you on your great faith in your lady betrothed."

Domeric squeezed Sansa's hand. "Trust builds a strong relationship Aunt."

"Very good Nephew." She offered Sansa the thinnest of smiles. "You should be counting yourself fortunate in wedding my nephew Lady Sansa. Not all husbands are so kind and trusting to their wives."

* * *

Sansa had thought her second day at the Dreadfort would be much better than the first – it actually seemed it would be during the tour. Domeric was sweet and thoughtful and desired to to know her more as she yearned to know him. He did not abandon her to go riding and even defended her when Lady Dustin remarked snide comments about her during their midday meal.

"I am very sorry about my aunt's behaviour," said Domeric after he caught up with her on her way back to her chambers.

"You have naught to apologise about," said Sansa, smiling at him. "You've been nothing but kind to me since I arrived here and I view your lady aunt's words as helpful advice. I do eat too less and I must consume more to survive the winter to come; I must learn more about the North than singing southron songs; and I will prove to her that I am as much a Northerner as you and her."

"You are already a Northerner Sansa; you were born a Northerner."

"Lady Dustin does not believe I am one." Sansa did not mean to sound bitter. "I cannot believe she thought I was a Tully!"

"You do look more Tully than Stark. There is naught wrong with that," he said hastily as Sansa bit her lip to suppress a frown. "You have the Stark name though – that is what counts at the end. It's not wrong for a son or daughter to favour his or her mother's looks over his or her father's. It's natural. Lady Sansa, don't allow my aunt's words to diminish your spirits. She will love you over time."

She might not. "How long will she be here for?"

Domeric shrugged. "Aunt Barbrey never stays longer than three days. She may leave tomorrow morning. Oh, Father told me to remind you that every day a few hours before supper, you will spend an hour sewing with my mother. You'll sew with um, both my mother and my aunt today."

"No!" Sansa blurted out. She blushed as pink as a strawberry as her betrothed arched an eyebrow questioningly. "I…" spluttered Sansa. "I don't want your aunt to see how horribly I sew!"

Domeric laughed. "Oh Lady Sansa! You are too modest! You are a fine sewer! I am certain both my mother and aunt will be _very_ impressed." He paused. "In fact, Aunt Barbrey said she is eager to sew with you. She also said that you Starks can wield needles as well as swords."

* * *

 **My exams are over! It was 2 weeks of intense studying and stressing and finally all over :D More time for writing too! I thought it would be great for The Bolton Bride to move along and I hope to upload another chapter soon! Oh, and if you know any great names for horses, please let me know! I don't have any good horse names and when I looked up some on the internet, many of them sounded too...modern?**


	5. Barbrey

Once Barbrey Dustin received word from her sister that Ned Stark's daughter was almost at the Dreadfort, she set off immediately, impatient to meet the girl in person. She heard Sansa Stark was a beauty – a _southron_ beauty. That would not do at all. Her dearest (and only) nephew deserved a strong Northern wife, not a half-Stark, half-Tully bride.

When she readied herself for a speedy journey to the Dreadfort, she left in the company of two of her three brothers, Rickard and Roose. Barbrey felt more than able to ride to her sister's home on her own, but by chance, her father wanted an alliance with White Harbour and sent Rickard and Roose to negotiate terms. _It is about time Father finds allies_ , Barbrey had thought when White Harbour was in sight. He had found no interest in alliance-making for years, since her own hasty marriage in fact. No doubt after Brandon Stark had died, her father realised there was no hope in a Ryswell becoming the Lady of Winterfell.

"You should consider remarrying, dear Sister," Rickard encouraged, spurring his red destrier towards Barbrey's palfrey. "Who knows? Perhaps if negotiations go well, both you and our little brother will wed Manderlys. Roose to one of Lord Wyman Manderly's granddaughters and you to Lord Manderly's younger son Ser Wendel. Good matches eh?"

"I will _never_ remarry," said Barbrey a little sharper than she intended.

Rickard arched an eyebrow. "I was not aware you loved your late husband so much, dear Sister."

"Enough with the 'dear sister' nonsense Rickard. It does not suit you. That trip to the Riverlands seemed to be more a mistake now I think of it. You know quite as well as I do that I will lose Barrowton if I remarry. There are no more Dustins by blood left – what do you think will happen to Barrowton?"

"Lord Stark will decide who to grant Barrowton to."

Barbrey sniffed, her lips tightening. "No doubt to one of his younger sons." She shuddered. "Or that bastard of his. I would rather be torn to shreds by wildlings than see Barrowton given to Ned Stark's bastard."

"You should curb your tongue, Sister. Not everyone here loathes the Starks as much as you do. What is it with your hatred towards them? You once had a small infatuation with Ned Stark's elder brother did you not?" He laughed. "Ah, I recall those days." He snickered as she glared at him. "Do you think our father will like a plump Manderly good-daughter? I fear our stores will deplete twice as quickly once Roose marries a Manderly girl."

They rode closer to White Harbour and the first thing Barbrey noticed were a ring of thick walls. One of the guards saw them and shouted, "Open the gates!" to the other guards standing nearby. Barbrey and her two brothers rode in. To her surprise, White Harbour was clean and well-ordered, not the dirty, disorganised harbour city she expected it to be. Apparently the harbour itself was divided into two: the inner and outer harbours. One of the White Harbour guards led Barbrey and her two brothers towards another war, this one a mile long, about thirty feet with towers every hundred yards, located on the jetty that separated the inner and outer harbours.

The smell of fish and the sea rose as they headed closer to the jetty. Common folk shuffled here and there, carrying baskets of seafood. Stalls popped up on the jetty and fishermen yelled their catches of the day. Whitefish, mussels, crabs and claims, herrings, winkles, salmon, lobster and lampreys being some.

"I hope the wedding feast will not consist fully of fish," young Roose remarked quietly. Barbrey suppressed a snort. She herself didn't fancy seafood as much as meat. Thankfully she only planned to rest at White Harbour for half a day before resuming her journey to the Dreadfort. She glanced at her youngest brother. He was more a Bolton than a Ryswell. Then again, her brother served as page in the Dreadfort to his namesake for a few years after Bethany married Roose Bolton. It still struck Barbrey as odd that her youngest brother disliked riding. What could have made a Ryswell hate riding horses? Barbrey often wondered. She guessed it was Lord Bolton flaying a horse in front of her brother.

It did not take long before Barbrey, Rickard and Roose reached the hill. Atop it was New Castle, the seat of House Manderly. The proud and pale castle's shadow loomed over the city's thick walls, House Manderly's merman sigil flying from its towers. _An impressive castle_. Barbrey dismounted her horse and handed the reins to the waiting stable boy. She pulled off her leather black riding gloves and with her brothers, followed the same White Harbour guard into New Castle.

"Lord Manderly will receive you in the Merman's Court," he informed them. "I have been assigned to show you the way my lords, my lady. If you will follow me my lords and my lady." He led the three of them through the courtyard and to the double doors protected by two men garbed in blue-green woolly cloaks and with silver tridents in hand instead of spears. They automatically opened the doors; to Barbrey, it felt like she stood in the great hall of a southron castle.

The walls, floor and ceiling were all made of wooden planks notched cleverly together and decorated with all the creatures of the sea. The floor was decorated with a dozen or more painted crabs and clams and starfish, half-hidden amongst twisting black fronds of seaweed and the bones of drowned sailors. On the walls adorned painted pale sharks prowling painted blue-green depths, octopods and eels slithering between grey rocks and sunken ships. A few shoals of codfish and herring swam between the tall, arched windows and higher, closer to where the old fishing nets were drooping down from the rafters, the surface of the sea was depicted. To the right, a war galley rested serenely against the rising sun and to the left, a battered old cog raced before a storm, her sails in rags. Across Barbrey was a dais that held not only the large cushioned throne, but the enormous Lord of White Harbour who sat on it.

Almost sixty years old according to Barbrey's father, Lord Wyman had a large belly and fingers the size of sausages. Rickard stepped forward. "Lord Manderly," he said politely. "I am honoured you have agreed to meet us."

"My lords! Lady Dustin!" the fat lord's voice boomed. "I am honoured to house you at New Castle as my guests! For how long will you stay?"

"My brother Roose and I will stay until negotiations between House Manderly and House Ryswell are complete," Rickard responded. "I'm afraid my sister, Lady Dustin, will not remain with us for long. She is expected at the Dreadfort and will stay under your roof for no more than a day."

Wyman Manderly nodded slowly. "Stay for the feast, Lady Dustin," he insisted jovially. "Have you tried fish cakes before, Lady Dustin?"

"No my lord," Barbrey admitted.

"You should my lady! They are delicious!" He turned to the massive, bald man with a walrus moustache to his left. "Wylis! Tell Lady Dustin that our famous fish cakes are the most delicious fish cakes in all of Westeros!"

Wylis Manderly, Lord Wyman's heir, stated quietly. "My lady, my father spoke the truth about our fish cakes. Our fish cakes are the most delicious fish cakes in all of Westeros." It was astonishing how soft and formal the Manderly heir was in comparison to his father.

Barbrey forced herself to smile. "Perhaps another time, my lord. I may pay you a visit on my…my return journey."

"Excellent!" Lord Manderly rubbed his plump hands together. "The prospect of uniting our houses, eh? I do not believe Houses Manderly and Ryswell had the honour of allying with each other in the past." The dais shook slightly as he rose and lumbered down the small steps. "Now, we will eat and drink, Manderlys and Ryswells together," he declared. "When you are content and well-rested, we will discuss uniting our houses in further details. Lady Dustin, I must _insist_ for you to sample our delectable fish cakes."

* * *

Barbrey felt an odd sense of relief as the familiar sight of the Dreadfort's high walls and triangular merlons rose into view. Ever since her husband Willam died, she found herself spending more and more time at the Dreadfort…until Domeric was sent to be her page at Barrowton. She loved her Bolton nephew as if he was her own son; she gifted him with fine horses almost every year and when he left to squire for Lord Redfort, she sent him books from the Barrowton library when she learnt he enjoyed reading about history.

She scowled when she remembered she was here to inspect her future niece-by-marriage. Ned Stark's marriage to Catelyn Tully was a terrible mistake – what was clearer than the product of their marriage, Lady Sansa Stark? Barbrey rarely visited Winterfell and in the rare occasion she did, she was not impressed at Lord Stark's littler of children. The majority of them could pass off as Tullys; only one, Ned Stark's younger daughter, physically resembled a Stark of old. When she saw the septa, she was horrified. When were Northern maidens raised by septas? She and Bethany most certainly never had one.

Before Barbrey went to greet her sister and good-brother, she caught sight of her beloved nephew…and his flaming, red-haired betrothed. Her smile vanished almost instantly. Sansa Stark was indeed a beauty; the Rose of the North to some people even. She was too pretty for a Northern highborn maiden. _All the knights would fight for her hand_ , Barbrey thought as Domeric greeted her happily. _If she was not betrothed to Domeric, she would have the chance to be betrothed to one of the Baratheon princes. Oh, the south would love that…_ Barbrey had wondered why Lord Stark suddenly decided to affiance his elder daughter to a Bolton after years of uneasy peace between the two houses. Was he afraid Roose Bolton would try and wrest control of the North from him? If he believed that, he was a fool. Then again, Domeric having a Stark wife could be useful…

After a short conversation with Domeric and Lady Sansa, the latter more quiet than a field mouse, Barbrey finally made her way to her sister's chambers. As she expected, Bethany was softly humming to herself as she sewed. She was never an animated person, not even when they were children.

"Bethany," said Barbrey, entering the room. "I see you are sewing another sigil tapestry. House Stark is it not? An odd choice."

"Odd?" Bethany looked at her strangely. "Why is odd, Sister?"

"Well, you are not related to the Starks. That flayed man tapestry is the House of your husband, the horse head is our father's and that one there is mine."

Bethany tapped the unfinished grey direwolf. "Lady Sansa is a wolf…and she'll be my good-daughter."

Barbrey snorted. "Lady Sansa is more like a mouse, Sister."

"A mouse?" Bethany seemed surprised. "Sister…Lady Sansa is a wolf…a little wolf." She stabbed the tapestry with her needle. "Soon this wolf tapestry will be on my wall. It will be complete…"

"Sister, the tapestries look lovely, but why are you in such a rush? There is at least a month or two until Lady Sansa flowers. I'm certain you will finish this um, beautiful tapestry before their wedding."

"It is not the wedding I am aiming to complete this by, Barbrey. I had a dream the other night…a terrible dream. It was before Lady Sansa's arrival. I was sitting on this very chair Barbrey, sewing this very tapestry. That was when I heard…the crackling flames. I looked out the window and the courtyard was aflame. I cried out for help and ran out to my son's room. I found him on his bed, asleep…or so I thought. I shook him but he wouldn't wake, Barbrey. He was dead! I then fell to my knees and wept, but then I heard someone laughing. I looked up and cried out in fear. Standing at the door with a knife in hand was the ugliest man I had ever seen! His skin was pink and blotchy, his nose broad and his hair long and dry and dark. His smile…" Bethany shuddered. "I still see it now. He slowly walked up to me…he grabbed me by my hair and whispered, 'the Dreadfort is mine. Your line is finished. I am the new lord now.' His hands were around my throat…and then I woke up." She shuddered again.

"Have you told your husband?"

"Yes. He dismissed it as naught but a nightmare." Bethany jabbed the tapestry in her lap a second time. "Naught but a nightmare…" she repeated eerily. "It was more than a nightmare…"

"Are you…ill, Sister?" said Barbrey carefully. "You look paler than usual."

"It is often cold here in the Dreadfort, Sister. So…so cold. Even with a crackling fire in the hearth, it is still cold…" She drew the furs closer to her. Barbrey could not help but frown. It was still summer – a rather warm summer compared to a number of previous Northern summers. Bethany rose and rolled up the tapestry, putting it in her sewing basket. "We have a sewing period with the little wolf…" Bethany informed her. "She is expecting us."

A sewing session with Lady Sansa Stark? Barbrey's brown eyes glinted. What better time than to interrogate her? She had more than a dozen questions to ask the Lady Sansa and without Domeric there to defend her…

"How exciting," Barbrey said with a rather sly smile, "and where will the Lady Sansa be expecting us?"

"The sewing room of course." The Dreadfort had a sewing room? "I recalled it from the tour Roose gave me when we were wed," Bethany explained. "When the Boltons were still the Red Kings, there were many of them. So many Bolton girls and wives that when the men went off to war, they would huddle in one chamber and sew together. Some have said that they sewed cloaks for the men made from the skins of their enemies," she added with a ghostly grin.

"I…I see. Why um, why is it called the sewing room?"

Bethany laughed. "Oh dear sister! _I_ call it the sewing room! The maesters have named it the Cloak Chamber or something." She lowered her voice. "No one but the servants have set foot in that room. When I first came here, I always wanted to sew in the sewing room. My good-mother was long dead and my husband had no sisters or female Bolton cousins. Now that my future good-daughter is here, I can finally sew in that room as all my predecessors have done. I'm so glad you're here too, Sister. The more the merrier eh?" Dreaminess appeared in her eyes. "It will not be long before I have granddaughters to sew with…"

Barbrey glanced at her uneasily. Bethany's… _obsession_ with having a dozen or so grandchildren was becoming slightly unnerving. Bethany was quite fortunate in having Domeric; Barbrey never had the joy of being a mother. She hardened at the thought of it. Brandon Stark, though a ward of her late husband's father, had spent most of his time endlessly riding in the Rills, thus becoming a familiar sight and presence to Barbrey. He was kind and charming while a bold rider. Barbrey would always enjoy watching him ride. One night, after drinking a little too much with her brothers, he took her maidenhead. Barbrey believed it would lead to a match between her and Brandon…it did not.

"Where is Roose?" said Barbrey, hoping to change the subject.

"Somewhere…he might have gone hunting even. Over the years, Roose had ah, developed a fondness for hunting in the woods."

"Not for riding?"

"Roose would never enjoy riding as much as Domeric. He thinks it a necessity while Domeric loves riding as much as we do."

"Our brother Roose has no interest in riding. Odd for a Ryswell."

"indeed," Bethany agreed. "Come, Lady Sansa is waiting for us. It will be rude if we show up late to a sewing session with the little wolf…"

"Quite." She followed Bethany out of her chambers, through two corridors and stopped in front of a door that looked identical to every other door there. A smile slowly appeared on Barbrey's face when she noticed Lady Sansa lingering nearby with her own sewing basket, doubt in her darting blue eyes.

"Little wolf…" Bethany beamed at her. "I am delighted you have come…"

"Domeric told me we are to sew together," Lady Sansa said nervously. Barbrey caught a glimpse of Sansa's slim white fingers shaking like a leaf when she spoke. _Too much feeble southron blood. It would be good to eradicate it quickly._

"We will indeed…my lord husband had mentioned that as you are still a young girl, you must continue your education…which includes sewing. Maester Tybald will instruct you in history, numbers and most of your lessons while we will sew together for an hour or so every day. Would that not be exciting, little wolf? We'll sew together every day…" Barbrey bit her lip as Lady Sansa flinched. For the first time since she met the girl, she felt the tiniest spot of pity towards her. Bethany was not mad, but she…she had her rather delirious moments. Sadly they were a tad bit more common now than before.

Bethany's slightly glazed brown eyes remained fixed on the 'little wolf' as she pushed open the door. The sewing room was unusually round; a large window at one side and a vast wardrobe at the other. Around the room were a circle of plain chairs with no decoration or cushions. Barbrey glanced around. The only sign of embellishment in the entire chamber was the now-faded flayed man banner that hung on the wall opposite the huge window.

"How lovely," Barbrey commented with a hint of cynicism. "Does it get a little warm in this room, Sister?"

"I do not know," answered Bethany absently. "I suppose we will find out when the sunrays shine through the window. The sun hardly appears," she added. "It is afraid of the Dreadfort, or so Roose says." Before Barbrey could frown, Bethany gestured for her to sit down beside her. "Little wolf…" Bethany called. "Come and sit over here. Now that is a good girl…"

Like a terrified little mouse, Lady Sansa obeyed.

"Lady Sansa," said Barbrey as lightly as she could manage. "It must be exciting for you to part from your family. Are you eager to be Domeric's wife?"

"Quite eager Lady Dustin," replied Lady Sansa like the trained wolf she was. "I cannot wait to be Domeric's wife."

"Was your father more willing to part from you than your mother?"

"I…I do not know, Lady Dustin."

"Of course. You are still a young girl are you not? Have you bled yet?"

"Bled?"

"Flowered. Become a woman. I am certain you know as well as I do that you're unable to marry Domeric until you have flowered and become a woman." It was cruel, but she enjoyed watching Lord Stark's daughter hesitate so often. The poor girl could not make up her mind!

"What are you sewing, little wolf?" breathed Bethany.

"A tapestry Lady Bolton," said Lady Sansa, relief shining in her blue eyes. "I've decided to sew a tapestry of House Bolton's and House Stark's sigils as a symbol of friendship between the two houses and my betrothal with Domeric. If it turns out well, I plan to sew another one and send it to my parents. Once I finish one of the tapestries, I will begin sewing gowns again. Summer will soon disappear and winter will be here. I'm afraid I did not bring enough winter dresses and I found the Dreadfort colder than I thought."

"Winter is coming…little wolf…"

Lady Sansa Stark nodded, more confident than before. "Winter is coming," she affirmed so softly Barbrey almost missed it.

"Perhaps winter will be here sooner than you think," Barbrey remarked. "It'll be splendid if you have a winter wedding. You and Domeric _must_ come and visit me at Barrowton after the wedding."

"We will, Lady Dustin. Domeric will desire it with enthusiasm."

Barbrey smiled to herself. She might not have any sons and daughters of her own, but Domeric would always hold a special place in her heart. She might not care much about his quiet, uncertain Stark wife, but perhaps one day she would leave Barrowton to one of their sons – if permitted of course. It is believed many Ladies of Dreadfort are kissed by insanity after years at the Dreadfort. It seemed to have already embraced poor Bethany; it might kiss the honourable Ned Stark's daughter one day. Barbrey's private smile widened.

She could not wait for that day.

* * *

 **I know I said I would upload a chapter 'in a week' which turned out to be a few weeks so my sincere apologies! I hope you enjoy reading the chapter :)**


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